


Father

by Robout (orphan_account)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Haytham's POV, Last Battle, Spoilers!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Robout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew it was coming. He could feel that tonight was the night that he'd have to end it, like he should've done all those weeks ago. He had convinced himself there was no other way, and he was determined to stick to what he'd planned.</p>
<p>But sometimes things don't go as you want them to. Or maybe they go that way BECAUSE you want them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father

**Author's Note:**

> I've played the game, start to finish. I've read the book Forsaken. Both of those darn things broke my heart so here I am, emotional and frustrated, trying to chance things to mend my traumatized feelings and trying not to get too out of character. I really do hope they're not out of character because that'd shame me considerably.

The moon was high in the dark sky, casting its pale light over New York. A calm silence had swept over the city as its inhabitants one by one went to bed. Although the night was still, unease had settled with some men, and the air prickled with tension. Something was about to happen, something that would change the course of events to come.

The tall proud walls of Fort Greg stood strong and firm, untouched and unscathed, so far at least. Men in bright red coats patrolled along the borders of the fort, muskets resting on their shoulders and arms swaying proudly back and forth. The sense of duty and responsibility was strong with these fellows, though many of them would much rather be home, curled up in a warm bed with their wives. There was, however, a man with duty and responsibility who lacked the red coat worn by his kinsmen. He stood alone, waiting for what he was certain would happen precisely tonight. What he didn’t know, was when tonight it would occur. Haytham Kenway could feel cold beads of sweat form in his neck and by his wrists. He was anxious, nervous, and it shamed him. His thoughts were conflicting, torn by logic, duty and heart. 

He knew, clear as crystal, that his son would come tonight. He knew that he was after a man under his command. His son sought to kill his friend and ally, Charles Lee, and he knew he had to stop him. Without Lee, much work would be undone, and it would take much time to restore all that would be lost. He had waited far too long to let things be set back further. The most logical solution would be to kill him. Dispose of his own son, the only obstacle that threatened their order. Of course, he would’ve done so immediately, but his own curiosity had made a fool of him. He should’ve killed his son when he had the chance. He should’ve rid of him the first time they met, when he wandered carelessly into that abandoned church. 

But, of course, he didn’t. He was curious to what his son was like, and there was a thought, a tiny little glimmer of hope, that he could stop his foolish ways and make him see the truth. His son, Connor Kenway was his name. He could have saved him from ignorance and naivety. But he wouldn’t be swayed from the path he had taken. He was determined, stubborn even. Haytham could only wish he wouldn’t dislike his own father so. But sometimes, it seemed like he was giving him a chance. Sometimes he would give a few subtle hints that he wanted him to explain himself, to justify his actions. As subtle as they were, they were not completely unnoticed. But Haytham could never make him understand, never see reason. Of course he wouldn’t. He was raised by his mother, a native, one born in nature and kept away from the greedy and cruel ways of the common man. He would never understand. 

He could only wish he had sought out his father instead, not the assassins. Their mortal enemy since the beginning of recorded history. 

Suddenly, the loud exploding noise of several cannons being fired ripped through the silence, making Haytham’s heart take an involuntary leap in his chest. What now? Through his entire life, he had lived and acted upon the knowledge that the assassins favored silence, infiltration. Sneaking and skulking around in darkness without discovery. Instead, there was this loud head-on attack from the sea. It couldn’t be correct; it must be a diversion, a distraction from a hidden enemy. The alarm bell rung through the city with a steady pulse, not that it did more than warn the citizens. Nothing could be done to stop the attack this early on. 

In the distance, he could hear the sound of crumbling stone. A cannonball must’ve hit the nearby wall and shattered a portion of it. That would be where his son would come, no doubt. Haytham dove for the cover of darkness, planning to remain hidden until he spotted him and could confront him. 

He needn’t wait long before he saw him. But there was something about the way he moved that was troublesome. The young man moved clumsily, stumbling and panting, as if he had no energy to move. He fell forward, grabbing a barrel for support. He was injured, and Haytham tried to push away and dismiss the annoying prickle of worry in his chest. He didn’t know this man, regardless of the fact that they were kin. It was an assassin, a bug that they needed to be rid of. 

“Where are you Charles!?” shouted the boy, his voice cracked from exhaustion and pain. 

Haytham stepped forward, approaching his son from behind. It was now or never. He had to act quickly and think fast. This boy was unpredictable, like the wounded animal he was. He would with almost completely certainty attack on sight. 

“Gone,” replied Haytham to the empty question. Connor surely did not expect to hear the voice of his father, and the pause before he turned around gave Haytham more than enough time to quickly evaluate his next move. 

He rushed towards him. It was a dance he had danced so many times he could do it with closed eyes. A swift punch in the face, knuckles connecting sharply with hard native cheekbones. A knee to the stomach, to get him to hunch over. Then an elbow in the back to send him crashing to the ground. But before Haytham could collect himself to have a word with the now thought to be neutralized Connor, the young man pushed himself up and punched him in the groin. A bitter sense of irony had time to make itself known in Haytham’s mind before the pain shot up through him. He stepped back out of sheer surprise and a fist connected with his cheek. 

He got his bearings quickly enough to block a second punch and counter-attack his opponent. He was taken by surprise, however, when he suddenly had his arm twisted around his back and locked behind him. He was trapped for the moment, but he knew of several tricks to get out of it. However, this was the brief moment of calm, or as calm as a fight could get, before the storm. 

“Come now, you cannot hope to match me, Connor,” he said with gritted teeth, the uncomfortable position of his arm making him tense up with pain. “For all your skills you’re still but a boy, with so much left to learn.” He knew it would anger him, and with an angry grunt Connor pushed him away. The sharp ‘shing’ of a blade unsheathing cut through the air, and Connor shoved a knife straight into Haytham’s wrist. He cried out in pain and instinctively moved back, Connor crouched on the ground. His son seemed to be taking breather so he stumbled away, quickly evaluating the condition of his arm. 

“Give me Lee!” Connor shouted, sounding very much like the desperate boy he was. Such anger, such arrogance… Haytham only wished things had been different for his little boy. His? No, it was not his. It was an animal from the woods, and nothing more. 

“Impossible,” he replied, breathing heavily. He pressed his hand around his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding just a little bit. “He is the promise of a better future.” As he tended to his wound, he could hear Connor slowly getting to his feet. “A sheep needs a shepherd,” he added, a pitiful attempt to try and make him understand for the last time. 

As always, the boy wouldn’t listen. 

“He has been dismissed and censured; he can do nothing for you now!” 

Haytham couldn’t quite figure if the boy meant to try and dishearten him, or if he was merely spewing out facts to give himself hope. Alas, there could only be one outcome now. Connor would not see reason, so he would have to fight him. 

“A temporary setback,” he said, reaching for his sheath. “He will be restored.” 

He drew his sword, readying himself for the coming fight. Connor’s manner of readying himself was far less graceful, but considering his condition it wasn’t too much of a surprise, he sloppily let his tomahawk fall out into his hand, gripping it tightly. The boy was swaying on his feet, and Haytham couldn’t help but feel that if he didn’t hold back he could seriously damage the poor creature. Wait… Why would he feel sorry for him? Despite their very brief time together, they had no bond, no connection. At least, that’s what Haytham had tried to convince himself of ever since the day they parted ways. 

Their weapons connected in a clash of opinions, and they fought viciously, almost recklessly. It seemed like the fight would never end, until they would tire and collapse from exhaustion. But it was stopped early by a stray cannonball, which struck the ground between them, flinging them towards the ground. Connor grunted heavily as he dragged himself towards his father, the flame of battle still burning in his eyes. 

“Surrender… and I will spare you…!” he growled, reaching out for his father’s leg. Haytham could only back away from him, too weathered to stand. As the cloud of dust cleared, it seemed as if the fog in his mind faded along with it. What was in front of him was his son, and labeled his enemy, reaching for him with murder as his intentions. Why had it come to this? How come they were now clashing, weapons drawn, when they had only weeks ago worked together towards a common goal? He would even go as far to say he quite enjoyed the company, despite his lack of knowledge, and his foolish mindset. Ignorant and naïve, he was. But he was also brave, determined, strong…

He was struck by a realization that took his breath from him. This was no animal, but a son. A son he could admit he was proud of. This one young man had accomplished much, and he could hardly believe himself when he recalled that earlier that night he had plotted to slaughter him. He let the sword in his hand slid out of his grip as he got to his feet, panting heavily. 

“No, I will not surrender,” he announced, his hands on his knees to hold his tired body up. “But I will not fight you, Connor.” 

The boy seemed surprised, a puzzled expression appearing on his face. He couldn’t understand the cause for this sudden change, nor did he know how to react to it. Haytham stood up straight, leaning back slightly, regarding his son with tired eyes. There was something there that Connor couldn’t quite read. Something different, something he had not seen before. 

“I could not live with myself, knowing my only son had died at my hand…” he leaned down and picked up his sword and sheathed it, and with one last look at Connor, still lying confused on the ground, he turned. Within moments, he could slowly realize what it was he had seen in his father’s eyes. 

“Farewell.” 

It was grief. 


End file.
